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Complex Numbers
Complex Numbers
A complex number is expressed in the standard form a + bi, where a and b are real numbers and i is defined by i^2 = -1 (that is, i is the square root of -1). For example, 3 + 2i is a complex number.
The bi term is often referred to as an imaginary number (though this may be misleading, as it is no more "imaginary" than the symbolic abstractions we know as the "real" numbers). Thus, every complex number has a real part, a, and an imaginary part, bi.
Complex numbers are often represented on a graph known as the "complex plane," where the horizontal axis represents the infinity of real numbers, and the vertical axis represents the infinity of imaginary numbers. Thus, each complex number has a unique representation on the complex plane: some closer to real; others, more imaginary. If a = b, the number is equal parts real and imaginary.
Very simple transformations applied to numbers in the complex plane can lead to fractal structures of enormous intricacy and astonishing beauty.
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http://makfax.com.mk/en-us/Details.aspx?ItemID=3511
A Russian man has miraculously survived drinking eight bottles of vodka...
...Pavel Kondratyev (39) was found unconscious on the street in the Russian city of Yekaterinburg, local media said.
Now, while I have no intention of attempting to surpass his record (after all, he's both Russian and even bigger than I am), I am impressed.
And the last paragraph of the news story linked above, while not telling me anything I couldn't have guessed, gives me the idea for a story, or part of one. |
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This afternoon, my business partner walked in with her hair all up in foil rollers.
Next door to us is an upscale hair salon, and the hair stylist or beautician or tonsorial engineer or whatever the hell they're calling themselves these days does her hair sometimes for free.
My partner - who for the sake of discussion and relative anonymity we'll call 'Sue' - goes over there when they have an opening because, after all, it's free. So today she came back with her hair, which is thick and long, all done up in tinfoil.
"Well, I guess you're immune from alien abduction and government conspiracies today."
"Yep," 'Sue' replies. "And I like it because [Stella] gives me a glass of wine." She holds up a tulip glass with about two inches of pale wine in it - Chardonnay, or maybe sauvignon blanc, if I'm any judge. (which I am)
A little while later she pauses in the door of my office prior to going out for a smoke, and then back to the cosmi... cosmo... cosmat... hairdresser, to tell me something work-related. I don't remember what she said, but my laugh was obviously misplaced based on the work-related thing, because she looked at me like I'm nuts (if she's any judge). "What?"
"You've got your hair up in shiny foil rollers, a glass of wine in one hand, a lighter in the other, and a cigarette hanging from your lips."
"Haven't you heard? It's Trailer Trash day."
Funny, I forgot to wear my wifebeater. But I went out and got a six-pack to celebrate. |
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Today was one of those perfect spring days. After work, I went to a local haunt (a teahouse) and got me a light dinner, a pot of aged tea, and an Old Rasputin. There, I wrote a lot of notes about a story I'm working on (patience, grasshoppers - I'll link it when it's done), which counts as my daily foray into fiction.
And I worried about the swine flu... not in the slightest.
You have a much higher chance of getting hit by a truck on the road than you do of dying from the flu (with notable exceptions). It's right to take precautions but... Jeez, people, get some perspective here. The everyday dangers we face are enough to deal with, without compounding it with media-induced panics.
Not a lot of point to living if you're going to live in fear. |
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It hit me like a crosstown bus.
One minute, I was enjoying a fine, spring day, and the next - boom! - aches all over my body, sweltering fever, the shakes...
They say it's swine flu, and that people have died from it. I don't know - I haven't been to Mexico, or been around anyone who has. They say I shouldn't go out, that I'll recover in seven or eight days.
Seven or eight days? How am I supposed to survive seven days shut in at home? But I guess the alternative is to risk spreading the virus, like mustard on a ham sandwich. Funny, that doesn't make me hungry right now.
Why me, God? Why, out of all the people I know, did it have to be me? Why couldn't it be Marcia, the receptionist who is always giving me the cold eye, as if she knows I'd sexually harass her if I thought I could get away with it? Why not Frank, the dipshit who keeps stealing my parking spot? Hell, why couldn't Mr. Jamison catch this, be stuck at home for a week so he's not looking over everyone's shoulders.
Instead, now I gotta call in and tell Mr. Jamison why I won't be at work for a week.
Swine flu.
They say men can't get mad cow disease, because men are pigs. Well, here we go. Fucking oink.
You know what? To hell with it. I'm going in anyway. I will not suffer alone. I'm going to rub my hands all over Marcia's telephone when she's not looking (all the while pretending it's her breast), blow my nose and wipe it on Frank's Porsche's door handle, and then all over the doorknob to the executive washroom just to get Mr. Jamison.
That's right. If I'm going down, I'm taking all of them with me. Bastards.
But first, I need to go root for some truffles. |
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Today, after returning from the convention (and a completely decadent breakfast at Denny's - I have no idea why there's not one in my town; it's one of the universe's great jokes, I suppose), I decided to make good on a promise to myself and attend a Body Pump class at the gym.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Now, I can barely walk, and I can't lift my arms over my head.
Someone please tell me why they say exercise is supposed to be good for you?
At the end, the instructor (an entirely too perky woman named Amy) told us to "drink lots of fluids."
Tequila is a fluid. |
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This morning was a different writing workshop, led by the same moderator. While this is a s-f/fantasy/horror/other geeky stuff convention, the principles were rather universal: character, plot, setting (I will not speak of the "literary" genre of writing which lacks character, setting, plot, and readability). We didn't actually write much, instead spending most of the time discussing everyone's brief writing. Useful. Tough crowd, but useful.
My work wasn't the best, but it was far from the worst, so that was encouraging.
What wasn't encouraging was the next thing I went to, a panel discussion on getting your short stories published. "There's only three print mags left," one guy said - referring, of course, to spec-fic markets. "And maybe seven legitimate online publishers."
Great.
Well, I was never intending to do this stuff for a living.
Afternoon brought a "Watching the Watchmen" panel discussion, where it became clear that a) everyone who liked the graphic novel also liked the movie; b) Nevertheless, there are things we'd all do different with the movie; and c) I knew more about the storyline than anyone else, which I suppose makes me either well-read in geek circles or a loser - amounts to the same thing, I suppose.
The best part, though, was a small group of Something*Positive fans gathered around a table with Randy Milholland listening to him talk about the comic and asking him questions. Turns out nearly every character in S*P (I linked it yesterday) has a real-life inspiration. That frightened me. And amused me, simultaneously. Randy's a good guy, even though he likes to fuck with his readers' heads - I got a signed Choo-Choo Bear sketch and a copy of the print version of Super Stupor.
There's not much that interests me tomorrow, so I'll probably go to a writing workshop in the morning, then head back home to my cat-diminished house and, well, hopefully do some writing...
Oh. And this
http://myfirstdictionary.blogspot.com/
is hilarious. |
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First, thanks to all of you who commented on my last entry - I appreciate the thoughts.
In spite of the death of my little cat, or perhaps because of it, I still went to a convention this weekend. RavenCon, in Richmond, not as long a trek as the other con I went to. But this time, I'm without my wife - this con doesn't feature drumming or bellydancing, which along with vampires might be the only thing to drag her to one of these geeky things. I'm not enough, that's for sure.
One of the reasons I'm here is one of my favorite webcomic cartoonists is here. This guy:
http://www.somethingpositive.net/
Which I've mentioned before, but if you're new: it's helpful to click on the "First Comic" link on that site. If you're horrified, disgusted, offended, or anything but amused at the first comic, don't bother reading the rest. I, of course, found it hilarious.
Anyway, I haven't seen Randy yet, though I stopped by his table (someone else was staffing it) and saw his amusing line of t-shirts, also visible through links on the site above. I met him once before, last time he came to Richmond. Hopefully, he doesn't remember me. I'd become a bit inebriated, and was at a table full of fellow geeks, and we were trying to out-Monty Python each other.
What I did do is go to a writing workshop. The weekend is awash in them, and I hope to visit more tomorrow. The concept of tonight's workshop was characterization, which I was interested in because I threw away a line in my last Fantasy newsletter to the effect of the importance of creating memorable characters.
Of course, character descriptions are pretty useless on their own - except to the author. Chances are nobody wants to read your raw notes about a character (unless perhaps they're a writer interested in the process), any more than they want you to spend the first 100 pages of your fantasy novel rewriting the Book of Genesis for the world you created.
So the exercise was to a) create a character, quickly but fleshed out in terms of age, basic background, etc. and b) write a REALLY quick scene where the character meets a hooded female figure on a balcony, and must stop her from doing... something (undefined, and not to be explicitly stated). This effectively takes a character created with no idea what story s/he's going to be in and putting the character into an unfamiliar situation.
What I wrote (hastily, remember) was:
The door slid shut behind me, muting the clamor of voices. Dark clouds brushed most of a moon. I stood still, my gaze sifting through the shadows.
Where was she? She had to be there.
A break in the clouds, a glint of silver, and as if she knew she was revealed, she stepped forward, her face hidden in the hood.
But it was her.
"Ill met by moonlight," I told her.
"You shouldn't have come." Her words were ice.
"I had no choice." I stayed by the door.
"You always have choice."
I got points for referencing Shakespeare, and I think the panel liked my word choices (I've been working on favoring action verbs over linking verbs), but what I really got out of this was:
1) Know your characters.
2) Character is not about what happens to you, but what you do about it.
3) I really need to get back to writing SOME kind of fiction EVERY day. (Blog entries don't count.)
Something's always getting in the way of 3, but I need to do something about it. You know, to reveal my own character - or, perhaps, change it. |
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MAGGIE
 
1994-2009
One of the reasons I haven't been around much lately is I've been dealing with the declining heath of my cat, Maggie.
She's never been much of a cuddler - with a few notable exceptions - but as her final illness progressed, she wanted nothing more than to sit on my lap as I watched videos. She didn't care much what videos she watched, so I've been going through Star Trek: The Next Generation. I think her favorite character was Data, because he had a cat, too.
These past few weeks, as I knew the end was coming, I've been spending more time with her, letting her sit outside in the sunshine, letting her wander around the yard as she did when she was a kitten. Different yard, same concept.
I got Maggie before my first marriage. My ex-wife thought she was her kitty, so she took Maggie with her. That's when I got Kali and Ghost, to fill the cat-shaped hole in my life. But then I got Maggie back because the ex couldn't deal with her - she was a mischievous little cat when she was younger.
One time, when I had severe neck and arm pain, I was lying in bed, trying not to move. Usually, Maggie would stay on the nightstand while I slept. Like I said, not much of a cuddler. But this time, she climbed up onto my chest and settled down just over the affected shoulder - and started purring, as if trying to make it better.
But Maggie had her dark side - she had a bad habit of not using her litter box, leaving messes in various locations. Not surprisingly, the humans with which I shared a house objected to this, and she was eventually relegated to a comfortable - but lonely - spot in the laundry room. I'd take her out to sit with me when I was on the computer or watching vids or whatever.
And then, as cats do, she started to slow down. She lost weight, and puked a lot. The vet said it was probably lymphoma, but they'd have to do invasive biopsies to be sure. I couldn't agree with cutting open a 14 year old cat just to do biopsies, on the hope that maybe she'd get another six months.
So I waited, and I watched, and I spent every moment I reasonably could with my problem child.
Today, she couldn't walk. And I took her to the vet for the last time. I stroked her and looked into her eyes until the lights went out in them.
Oddly enough, I'd never been there for a pet at the end, before. My old dog died on her own. All my other cats have wandered off, never to be seen again - no closure, just the realization that they're probably never coming back.
This time, there's no "probably" about it. No Schroedinger's Cat here, in any state of quantum - or ordinary - uncertainty; just the end of a crazy calico that no one but me could get close to.
She was a problem kitty, sure - but she was my problem kitty, and until I join her in the great unknown, there will always be someone who has a cat-shaped hole where Maggie should be.
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Last night, my wife went willingly to a Katy Perry concert.
You know, the "I kissed a girl" chick?
Wait, it gets worse:
Apparently, the concert is part of the...
Hello Katy tour.
If you need me, I'll be over there in that room with all the cushions on the wall. |
© Copyright 2025 Robert Waltz (UN: cathartes02 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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I'm more than happy with Carrion Luggage, however.
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